Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) (23 page)

After
probably forty minutes of processing, three guards escorted him to a cell and
pushed him inside. The heavy door slammed behind him and he stood in the empty
cell alone.

So far
things had gone as planned. But, the joke might be on him, he thought. Could
they know his real identity? Could they know his value as such a high-ranking
member of the cartel? Could this be his home for the next twenty or thirty
years?

The
Butcher didn’t have time for these thoughts. He took a deep breath and blew out
the air forcefully. Then he repeated this process ten times, just as he’d
learned in his martial arts training. He followed the breathing with some
push-ups and light stretching. Whether things went smoothly or his plan went
awry, he wanted to be ready. Lithe. Warm. Prepared for anything.

His cell
had solid walls on both of its sides and rear, and only the front had bars.
There’d be no prisoners reaching in from the side cells to grab you or stab you
in this place. Someone had designed it wisely.

Taking
his eyes from the concrete walls that encased him, he looked across the hall,
into the only cell he could fully see. There, it appeared a prisoner lay under
the covers. Otherwise he could see nothing and hear only remote sounds of men
talking, laughing, and cursing.

The
isolation felt crushing, especially when he’d just left the protection afforded
by hundreds of gunmen and millions of dollars.

He shook
the thought from his head and stretched some more and took a few more deep
breaths, trying to swallow down the idea that he might literally be the most
stupid criminal ever. Who breaks into a prison? Voluntarily? And the most
secure one in Mexico, at that?

He pushed
the thought down and started shadow boxing. Throwing some kicks and strikes.
Nice and loose. Maybe thirty percent power.

Perhaps
Flores knew about his attempt to take over the Godesto Cartel and plan to enter
the prison to kill him. How would Flores respond if he did? Did Flores have the
power to have guards enter the cell and beat him to death?

The Butcher
did
fear a bunch of guards with nightsticks. He had skills, but not the
kind of skills to fend off multiple men with sticks and basic training.
Especially if they came with shields, helmets, and shin and elbow pads.

But if
Flores’s plan was to have the guards allow a bunch of prisoners to kill him,
then the Butcher felt much better about his chances. Although the cell was
pretty small and tight.
And
prisoners were hardened animals. No question
that if they rushed and tackled him in such a small place, where he couldn’t
move and dodge, he was doomed.

It rocked
him that mentally he was already beginning to weaken. Now that he was unarmed
and trapped, his bravado was beginning to fade. He knew he needed to stop
thinking so negatively.

He
stopped visualizing failure and decided if a bunch of prisoners did come, he’d
jump up on the top bunk and throw kicks from there until they drug him off. He
could kick deadly fast and hard. He’d break some noses and fingers before they
could get him down. And from there he could do far more damage.

The
lights in the hall clicked off and darkness flooded the corridor to his front.
Small night-lights barely lit the hallway. He wondered how long he should stay
up waiting. Perhaps he should catch some sleep in case he had to fight for his
life tomorrow in general population against twelve or fifteen of Flores’s men.

As he
debated this, he kept bouncing from foot to foot. Nice and loose. Then a sound
caught his attention. He recognized footfalls walking down the hall. No, it was
two sets of footfalls. Wearing boots.

Then they
were there, and he saw the silhouettes of two guards stop in front of his cell
in the dark hallway. They looked up and down the corridor before unlocking the
door and waving him forward.

The
Butcher rolled his shoulders a couple of times and prepared himself. It would
happen soon.

The
guards led him down several corridors and gates. The Butcher was completely
lost by this point, but his escape counted more on the officers who had accepted
his bribes than it did on his ability to find his way out.

After
pushing through yet another gate, the Butcher knew he was there. These cells
weren’t like the other cells. Their front doors weren’t iron gates with bars
that you could see and reach through, but steel doors that you couldn’t see
out.

This must
be their isolation unit, the Butcher thought. The guards led him about
three-quarters of the way down the hall and then looked back up the corridor
behind them one more time to make sure the path was clear.

“Make it
quick,” one of them said in a low voice, finally looking at him.

They
placed a massive key in the lock and turned it a full turn, then yanked the
heavy door open. Before the Butcher walked in, the officer who hadn’t said a
word put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. He turned and the man reached in
his pocket and handed him a handmade shank.

The
Butcher looked down at what had once been a flathead screw driver, but was now
a ground-down piece of metal, its handle removed and replaced with tape, its
point like a sharpened gaff.

The
Butcher entered the dark cell.

Hernan
Flores heard men approaching and finally relaxed. He was still reeling over how
long it had taken his attorney to arrive. But, as the saying went, “Better late
than never.” Especially when you were buried in the depths of Federal Social
Readaptation Center No. 1.

He
started moving toward the door and blinding light, then stopped. Silhouetted in
the door was a short man, who was clearly holding a shank.

“Miss
me?” the man asked, and Flores instantly recognized his voice.

“You
bastard.”

Flores
rushed toward him with every intent to knock the little bastard out. Just knock
him down, get the shank from him, and take him out. The Butcher was so small
that Flores knew he could handle him. He had size and he’d been in his share of
fights in his day, so to hell with all that bullshit martial arts the Butcher
always practiced.

But as
his fist swung hard and wide, he saw his nemesis step to the side as easy as if
he were Bruce Lee, and as Flores’s momentum carried him forward, the little
bastard kicked him in the back with a side kick that drove him twice as fast
toward the opposite wall. Instant, earth-shattering pain in his lower back
screamed through his nerves, so intense that he never felt the broken nose or
front teeth that the steel wall had knocked out. And the only thing that
surpassed the pain was the recognition that his legs had given out and he
couldn’t move them as he slid down to the floor. He roared in pain and fear as
he imagined having to live a life completely paralyzed, bound to a wheelchair
for his remaining days.

The
Butcher knew he had kicked him hard. As the fat asshole had come at him, he had
simply side-stepped him to the left and leapt forward into a flying side kick
as the man went past him, right into the fat piece of shit’s back. He knew the
kick must have cracked something because he had hit him so hard with his heel
that it had jarred his leg. Badly.

And the
Butcher was used to hard kicks on even harder kicking bags, so he couldn’t
imagine what Flores’s back must feel like. He might have even broken it, but
ultimately it didn’t matter. He skipped forward -- light and fast -- and
mounted Flores’s back just as he hit the ground. Without a moment’s hesitation
he drove the shank into his right ear. Deep. The entire fight was smooth, fast,
and flawless.

The
guards watched the whole thing go down, shocked and stunned at the little man’s
skills. The entire thing lasted two seconds. Not a moment of fear as the big
man rushed him, just a Zen-like calm, a simple sidestep, a powerful flying
kick, and cheetah-like speed as he darted forward, jumped on the man’s back,
and drove the shank into his brain.

The
little guy yanked the shank out of Flores’s head and wiped the blade on the
back of the dead man’s prison uniform.

“Who’s
next?” the man asked, a sick smile on his face.

The
guards looked at each other, shrugged, and then pointed him toward his final
destination. They walked him down a hall and guided him toward where their
sergeant had instructed them to bring him next. There were three guards who
weren’t involved in the bribes and this nighttime excursion. They needed to be
killed before the Butcher could successfully get out.

As they
led him down yet another hall, the guards wondered if the little man could pull
off this final challenge. In all, twenty-one guards were in on the bribes from
the Butcher and the Godesto Cartel. That much the Butcher knew. And he’d been
told before entering the facility that nearly one hundred and fifty more guards
on the night shift didn’t need to be involved, as they were either in different
parts of the building, or stationed in guard towers or on reserve as reaction
squads (and thus buried deep in the bowels of the building). These nearly one
hundred and fifty guards were oblivious to who entered or left the prison. They
had specific responsibilities usually involving the area directly around them.
They’d never even know the Butcher was there.

But there
were three guards too straight and honest to even approach, so the lieutenant
in charge of the night shift (and the first guard to be paid off) had worked
around them up to this point. But the Butcher could never leave in the middle
of the night without these three knowing or asking questions, so they’d have to
be taken out. And none of the guards were up for taking care of this nasty part
of the plan themselves.

“We know
them too well,” the lieutenant had said. “Plus, we can have you take them out
in an area where there are cameras, and that will lend credence to the story we
must concoct after you’re gone. After all, we must think of our own protection,
as well.”

“And
these men,” the Butcher asked, “will have billy clubs?”

“Yes,”
the lieutenant said.

“And
radios?” the Butcher asked.

“Yes.
There’s no way we can get their radios off them without them knowing something
is up. From day one in training, guards are taught to keep their radio on their
body. Even when they go to the restroom. It’s their lifeline. There’s no
getting their radios off them without putting them in high alert and possibly
causing them to send out a warning. They know some of the guards aren’t honest.
They’ve heard rumors of them slipping in drugs or weapons, or slipping shanks
to certain prisoners. These three men aren’t stupid, and they’re very wary.
Otherwise they would already be dead.”

“So,
three men with three billy clubs,” the Butcher asked, “and I have to take them
out unarmed?”

“Yes.
Because if you used a weapon against them, the investigators would have to
figure out where you got it, and that guard would be mercilessly questioned.
His finances watched for years. He might be jailed based on suspicion alone.
But these men’s guard should be down. I’ll ask them to meet me in the break
room,” the lieutenant had said, “so they won’t be expecting anything.”

“All
right,” the Butcher said. “I’ll take care of the men, unarmed. But what if they
get a warning out on the radio?”

“You
can’t allow that to happen.”

“You
can’t block the signal or get them on the wrong frequency?”

“They’re
already wary. And they barely trust me as it is.”

“And if
they get a call out before I take them down?”

“All is
lost.”

“Meaning?”

“I mean
these officers you’ve paid off can’t ignore a distressed call. Obviously, that
involves more than the twenty-one men who are in on this, and those twenty-one
can’t be seen as not responding. That would look very suspicious. If one of
those three gets a call out, a response force will come and they will beat you
half to death.”

“And I’ll
be thrown in a cell and you won’t be able to get me out?” the Butcher asked.

“Correct.
Probably, the warden will be here within twenty minutes of it happening and
there’s nothing I or anyone else can do. Plus, with any call out at this prison,
an alert goes out to the Presidential Palace. There are just too many VIP
prisoners here. Without question, they’ll figure out who you are and you’re
toast.”

“Toast?”

“Yes,
toast. For the rest of your life.”

That had
been the conversation the Butcher had shared with the lieutenant prior to his
entry, and as he neared the task of killing the three straight-laced guards, he
fully understood the risks he faced.

The two
guards and prisoner walked a bit further, and then the guards stopped and put
their arms out to halt the little man. The guard on the left put his hand on
the Butcher’s arm and leaned toward him, placing his mouth mere inches from his
ear.

“We can’t
get any closer as we’ll soon enter one of the areas under video surveillance.
But, go down this hallway and it’s the second door on the right.”